


Advanced Cross-Country Romance

by kbaycolt



Category: Community (TV)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Bickering, Camping, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Getting Back Together, I like to think I'm funny, Implied Sexual Content, Introspection, Kissing, Light Angst, Literal Sleeping Together, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Season/Series 06, Road Trips, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, epic bi4bi road trip extravaganza, gratuitous cursing on mountaintops, irregular posting schedule BUT this will absolutely get finished, minor cameos from other characters over phone calls & text, there's two beds and they end up together anyway
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:00:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29231187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kbaycolt/pseuds/kbaycolt
Summary: [Jeff calls at four in the morning with a ragged, slightly manic edge to his voice, and says, "I want to get the hell out of here with you."Britta knows that they both have jobs and responsibilities, and can't exactly drop everything to run away with each other at a moment's notice, but the desperate undertone to his words makes something stir with excitement inside her, and before she really knows what she's doing, she's answering, "When and where, and who's got the booze?"]Or,Jeff and Britta go on a life-changing road trip, get wasted a lot, and maybe learn some things about themselves in the process.
Relationships: Britta Perry & Jeff Winger, Britta Perry/Jeff Winger
Comments: 26
Kudos: 31





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> obligatory fic playlist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> welcome to my post s6 jeffbritta epic bisexual roadtrip fic. enjoy, i'm enamoured with these idiots and had to write over 7k of them

Jeff calls at four in the morning with a ragged, slightly manic edge to his voice, and says, "I want to get the hell out of here with you."

Britta knows that they both have jobs and responsibilities, and can't exactly drop everything to run away with each other at a moment's notice, but the desperate undertone to his words makes something stir with excitement inside her, and before she really knows what she's doing, she's answering, "When and where, and who's got the booze?"

* * *

'When' turns out to be noon of the following day, 'where' turns out to be the front steps of Jeff's condo, and 'who's got the booze' turns out to be Britta.

She packs two suitcases fifteen minutes after Jeff hangs up, stuffing them with clothes and toothbrushes and backup batteries for both of their phones, just in case. She also calls Frankie, who is for some reason wide awake, and explains that she and Jeff are going to be gone for an undetermined amount of time, and that she needs someone to take care of her cats while she's away. They end up arranging for Frankie and Pelton to have joint custody every other weekend.

It's late June, so still summer break, which means Jeff technically doesn't have to put in the minimum required hours at Greendale for another month. Britta has to admit if they were ever going to go on a trip, he picked the best time. This way, she can indulge his spell of newfound wanderlust, however long it lasts, and they'll be back home in time for the autumn semester.

She makes a note to call her boss in the morning and invoke her vacation days. Probably all of them.

Picking out what personal knickknacks she wants to bring along proves a challenge, but ultimately she decides she doesn't have room in her bags, and besides, it's not like she's leaving forever.

She manages a few more hours of sleep before the sun rouses her again. Her suitcases by the door remind her about the, frankly, insane thing she had committed to do last night, but she thinks it's too late to back out now, anyway. She pulls on jeans and green flannel over a white top, ties her curls back in a messy tail, and does one last sweep of her apartment, checking for anything she may have missed.

Her phone buzzes with a text from Jeff:

w*nger: _We're still on, right?_

If anyone was going to flake on this thing, it's Jeff, so at least Britta knows he means to follow through.

britta: _yep. im packed n ready_

w*nger: _Noon at my place then?_

britta: _if ur not gonna get cold feet then sure_

w*nger: _Rude._

w*nger: _Don't forget the booze._

w*nger: _12 at my place._

britta: _heard u the 1st time_ :/

Britta tosses her phone onto the couch with a loud sigh.

* * *

She's sitting on the hood of his car with her suitcases propped up nearby when he finally emerges from his condo.

Jeff still cleans up well, even after six years of attempts to convince him his appearance truly doesn't matter that much, and doesn't look at all like the manic, call-your-best-friend-at-four-in-the-morning disaster she'd envisioned him being last night. 

He's shaved, though, which briefly surprises her. He locks up his condo, dragging a ridiculous amount of suitcases and bags behind him. While his freshman year pressed shirts and button-ups did make him look unfairly sexy, Britta finds herself preferring his new habit of comfy sweaters and dad jeans. It really completes his 'given up on performative coolness' character arc, as Abed would say. The navy blue sweater he's donned this morning looks so warm and comfortable that it makes Britta jealous.

"You don't need to take your whole house with you," she tells him as his suitcases clatter over the curb. "Or are all those just your skincare products?"

"A man has needs," he replies seriously, popping the trunk of his Lexus.

She waits for him to finish piling his stuff in the back before shoving her own belongings in. It doesn't entirely fit, so the overflow ends up in the backseat, along with the alcohol.

They climb into the car; Jeff driving, Britta in the passenger seat. For a moment, they sit in silence, Jeff's hands tight around the steering wheel and Britta busying herself with adjusting the headrest.

Then Jeff hands her a pamphlet. It's filled with marketing ploys and junk for tourists, but it makes for a decent guide, and covers every state in the country sans Alaska and Hawaii. She flips through it, looking at the stock images of babbling streams, neon glowing cities, and rolling green landscapes. Britta's been all over the country, and she barely recognizes many of the places described in the pamphlet.

"Well?" Jeff says. "Where should we go first?"

Britta flattens a shiny page across her knee and points. "How do you feel about Mormons and salt flats?"

* * *

As a consequence of living in the Midwest of the continental United States, it takes them nearly eight hours to actually leave the state, and the sun is drifting low on the horizon. When they finally reach the Colorado-Utah border, Britta makes them stop, get out of the car, and take a selfie by the sign.

The cool evening air of La Sal, Utah is refreshing when Britta steps out of the car, limbs aching from being cramped one place for most of the day. She stretches up on her toes, sighing.

(Jeff, in a fit of weird determination, had insisted on driving the entire time. She's going to let him have this one, so he can get it out of his system, but she's driving tomorrow.)

She drags him over to the 'Welcome to Utah!' sign, which is rusted and crumbling from lack of touch-ups. Jeff refuses to go any closer out of fear of getting rust on his clothes or tetanus or something. Britta holds up her crappy flip phone she hasn't been able to really let go of, and snaps a picture of the two of them in front of the dilapidated welcome sign. Jeff isn't smiling, but he isn't frowning.

_Britta: 1_

_Jeff: 0_

They get back in the car.

Britta knows Jeff is absolutely not the type to sleep in his car if he doesn't have to, and he will _definitely_ object to any suggestions that involve driving through the night, so she directs him to Canyonlands Lodging a few minutes down the road.

It's a weirdly nice hotel compared to the drab, uninteresting landscape that stretches out around it. They book one room, two beds.

The extended sounds of Jeff preening in the bathroom before bed are disturbingly comforting, so Britta does what she does best and ignores it. She's brought along a copy of _When We Were Animals,_ by Joshua Gaylord—because she's been trying to read more literature with female protagonists, and Annie had given it a glowing review, and also because the author's name does _not_ make her laugh, thank you very much—which she curls up with on the bed, flips open, and tries to bury herself in, as Jeff runs the faucet for the third time.

That night, when they're both in bed and Britta is lying awake in the dark, feeling rather strangled by the knowledge that Jeff is so close nearby, she hears his bed creak as he rolls over, grumbling tiredly.

She draws her blankets up to her chin. Across the room, Jeff seems to be having a similarly restless night.

"Hey," Britta says quietly, "Jeff?"

"Yeah?"

"Are we on an honest-to-God road trip right now?"

Jeff is silent for a moment. "No. Road trip implies we have a destination in mind. We're just sightseeing. Being tourist-y. All that crap we missed out on in our youths." He spits out the last word like it tastes bad.

"Speak for yourself," she says. "I lived in New York. And committed arson in San Jose."

"You also tried to feed a goose a piece of garlic bread when we went to the zoo," he says, his voice muffled as he settles with his face on his pillow. "And when it attacked you, you climbed into a tree to escape it. What I'm saying is you spent your twenties doing crazy shit, then spent your college years doing even more insane shit. Let's do something normal for once."

"Like going on a road trip with your ex?"

"Sightseeing," he corrects. "Going sightseeing with your ex, who's also your best friend."

Britta flushes with warmth. She's immensely grateful for the darkness inside the hotel room, so Jeff can't see the pleased little grin that's worming its way across her face. She's never been a best friend before.

Jeff lets out a sigh. "Night, Britta."

"Night." Silence falls between them again. Britta rolls over so she's facing Jeff's side of the room. "Jeff?"

"Mm?"

"I think you're my best friend too."

He chuckles, and the sound makes her inexplicably sad. "Well, yeah. I'm the only one left."

* * *

Britta beats Jeff to his Lexus in the morning while he's busy styling his hair. He capitulates without much of a fight, but as soon as they're back on the road, he starts micromanaging her—"Don't squeeze the wheel so hard, you'll leave dents—who taught you to drive, _Abed?"_ —until she threatens to pull over in the sand and fuck up the wheels unless he shuts his mouth. He quits his nagging after that.

She gets on Highway 191, which takes them up to a tourist attraction called Hole 'N The Rock. The giant, smooth mounds of sun-baked stone are beautiful though sort of underwhelming. While they're screwing around in the souvenir shop, she discreetly snaps a picture of Jeff trying on a pair of clunky plastic sunglasses from around the corner.

They each end up buying a pet rock.

"What are you going to name him?" Britta asks, cradling hers in her palm. She is growing emotionally attached to it remarkably fast. It's the damn googly eyes, they give it an impression of life and sentience.

Jeff squints at the chunk of sandstone. "Why do I have to give it a name?"

Jeff-from-six-years-ago wouldn't have humored her at all; Jeff-from-right-now seems to be legitimately considering whether or not to give an inanimate object a name at Britta's request. She grins at him.

"Because you're his guardian now," she asserts, "and the first step of responsible rock ownership is to give him a name."

"What name did you pick?"

"You'll make fun of me."

"I won't. Honest." Jeff tries really hard to look sincere and fails. "Alright, I probably will, but that's just an occupational hazard of being my friend. I can't help it."

"I know you can't," Britta says with sympathy, patting his arm. She holds up her pet rock and strokes the top of what she imagines is its head. "Her name is Señora Roca. It means Mrs. Rock."

Jeff's lips tighten into a thin, restrained line as he withholds laughter. Britta cups a hand over Señora Roca protectively.

"He's just jealous because I learned things in Spanish class and he didn't," she whispers to the rock.

"I'm proud to have learned nothing from Chang because he was a maniac _pretending_ _to be a teacher_."

"Come to think of it," Britta says thoughtfully, "aren't you also pretending to be a teacher? It's not like you teach actual law like you're supposed to. Guess that makes you similar to Chang after all."

"That is the most horrible thing anyone has ever said to me. Never compare me to that lunatic again."

Out of courtesy, she does not remind him of that time he took an axe to the study room table, or tried to strangle Abed, or helped spark a riot during a wake. It's not the same brand of insanity as kidnapping the dean and turning a community college into a fascist authoritarian regime terrorized by a child army, anyway.

* * *

Britta carefully doesn't mention it, but she notices when Jeff doesn't toss out his pet rock, and instead places it in the cupholder for safekeeping.

* * *

Utah, on the whole, is generally boring. The plateaus and huge swaths of dry, barren landscape makes for an easy, albeit uninteresting drive. This doesn't mean that Britta isn't taking as many pictures of the two of them as possible, because she absolutely is, it just means that they make it to Salt Lake City sooner than she'd expected.

There are a truly astounding number of Mormon temples in the area, which Jeff has to keep Britta from commenting loudly on while they're in public.

Jeff doesn't want to do anything that requires being outside for extended periods of time, while Britta wants to visit every outdoor attraction they see, so they compromise by visiting one botanical garden of Britta's choice, followed up by one bar of Jeff's choice. Jeff spends their time at the garden texting and pretending he isn't enjoying himself, because apparently he's allergic to nature and all things outdoors, but Britta sees him inspecting a bush of roses and faintly smiling at a monarch butterfly that lands on his arm, so, suck on that, cynicism!

_Britta: 2_

_Jeff: 0_

After getting absolutely trashed at a local bar, they stagger back to the hotel together, arm in arm, giggling like teenagers. Jeff is slurring his words as he fervently attempts to explain that every movie, book, and show that has ever done time travel has done it wrong. Britta doesn't understand a single thing he's saying, but he's warm and letting her lean heavily against him, supporting her every time she threatens to topple over, so she doesn't really care. Though she does think this would be a conversation better suited for Abed.

The Grand America Hotel is probably way too expensive for two people living off bartender and teacher's salaries, but Britta can't bring herself to care when they're collapsing into luxurious silk sheets and fluffy blankets.

They booked two beds, of course—still, somehow, they wind up in the same bed, with Jeff sprawling out on his back and Britta curled into his side, their legs tangled together, her head tucked into his chest and his arm slung around her. Neither of them have even bothered to undress.

Britta might be drunk, but she isn't stupid. She knows, blearily, that they should probably separate themselves. She knows it isn't a good idea to slip into their old patterns, just because Jeff is having some sort of mid-life crisis and she's decided to tag along, for some unknown reason.

It's just—

Jeff is asleep. His eyes are closed, lips slightly parted, chest slowly rising and falling with every breath. The scratchy fabric of his stupid expensive dress shirt is rubbing soothingly against Britta's cheek. He's so warm, and he smells really good, and Britta can't bring herself to move away.

Just one night, she tells herself, tucking her body closer to his. They'll spring apart come morning and go back to normal.

She falls asleep with Jeff's cologne in her nose and the firm, comforting weight of his arm circling her waist.

* * *

Here's the thing:

Britta knows what they're doing.

She has ran away enough times to recognize it on another person—the erratic behavior, the spontaneity, the spells of manufactured happiness to cope with anxiety. And she knows Jeff well enough to know exactly why he asked her, of all people, to run away with him. She knows she's the only person who could possibly understand what he's going through. None of the others would be able to see Jeff's seemingly random desire to suddenly get the hell out of Greendale, after weeks of adjusting and coming to terms with his life there, for what it actually is.

Britta gets it, though. She's been doing it her entire life.

Jeff and Abed may share a tendency for fantastical escapism, but Jeff and Britta share something too: a tendency for extreme avoidance. If there's anything they can put between themselves and uncomfortable realities, whether it be alcohol or miles, they're bound to do it.

Personally? She's a little sick of always avoiding her shit. She's no therapist, but she is a friend, and she thinks Jeff needs this right now. This yawning distance between Greendale and them.

She had tried to ask when he wanted to go home, after a few days on the road, and he had simply continued perusing the travel guide, waving her off with a vague, "Not yet". Britta had frowned at his tone but dropped the issue; she's learned that there's a time and place for pushing Jeff into confronting his emotions, and right now isn't quite the time.

And she thinks, maybe she also doesn't want this to end, not yet.

Hmm. She'll deal with that later.

* * *

They don't talk about the 'we slept in the same bed together last night' elephant in the room, which is fine by Britta. Jeff says nothing about it one way or the other, which is mildly infuriating. It would be easier if he would declare that it was a mistake, that it won't happen again, because then Britta could forget about the entire thing, but he _doesn't_. He just silently gets up in the morning, disappears into the bathroom for an hour, and comes back out with a practiced smile and an odd air of ease. They don't talk about it.

God, Britta hates him sometimes.

* * *

Britta takes a picture of their two pet rocks sitting on the Lexus' dashboard, googly eyes glinting in the bright morning sunlight, and sends it to the Save Greendale Committee group chat with the caption: _senor and senora roca :)_

annie: _Awww!! Those are adorable!!!_

pelton: _are they married or siblings ?_

britta: _married, obv_

w*nger: _I don't remember giving you permission to name mine._

w*nger: _Or make ours get married._

britta: _i took initiatve_

britta: _*initiative_

annie: _You guys bought pet rocks together? That is SO cute._

britta: _were on a roadtrip_

britta: _sry i meant were **sightseeing_

She gets a private text from Annie a few seconds later.

annie: _You guys are ROADTRIPPING?? On your own?? Since when???_

annie: _That sounds so fun!! Send more pics to the group chat whenever you can!!!_

britta: _ofc <3_

annie: _< 33 :))_

Britta isn't sure how to tell Annie that, yes, while she is enjoying herself, she's almost completely sure this trip isn't just for fun.

Then Jeff is climbing into the driver's seat and tossing her a paper takeout bag from McDonald's, muttering something about carbs, and she's turning her phone off.

* * *

Jeff wants to go to Las Vegas next, and Britta wants to go to Reno. They argue about it until a barista at the Salt Flats Cafe politely asks them to relocate their bickering and stop disturbing other patrons, which is customer service speak for "you're being kicked out right now."

"You know what," Britta announces finally, "I'm calling Frankie. She'll tell us where to go."

Jeff huffs and crosses his arms.

Frankie picks up on the second ring. Britta puts her on speaker. " _Britta?"_

"Hi, Frankie, which is better, Las Vegas or Reno?"

" _And h_ _ello to you too_."

"Hey Frankie," Jeff says, leaning closer to the phone. "It's lovely to hear from you. I'm sorry that Britta left her manners in Greendale. If you would help us sort this out, we'd be so grateful."

Britta makes a throat-slitting motion in his direction. He sticks his tongue out at her.

" _Well,_ " Frankie says after a moment, " _Reno is cheaper, which I think would be better for your bank accounts. Both cities are the same distance from where you are, so time isn't an issue. If you're looking for the quintessential Nevada experience, Las Vegas is the way to go, but if I were you, I'd pick Reno._ "

"Ha!" Britta crows. "Suck on that, Winger! Thanks so much Frankie, love and light, you're the best." She hangs up and grins triumphantly at Jeff.

"Oh, shut up."

_Britta: 3_

_Jeff: 0_

* * *

Reno is a perfect blend of vintage Americana and tasteful modernization. Britta finds herself rolling down the windows to lean out, basking in the late afternoon sunlight and warm breeze, as Jeff shakes his head and chuckles at her. On the radio, Angel in Blue Jeans is blaring. Jeff takes a corner and they drive over a bridge, with a thin, winding blue river glittering below them. The sky above is clear and pale and stretches down to touch the wide expanse of horizon, flat and sprawling as far as the eye can see. Britta breathes in deeply, relishing the warm air in her lungs.

The city unfolds before them in every direction, rich with colors and lights and sound, and all at once Britta feels overwhelmed with the enormity of her own freedom.

Her blonde curls whipping out behind her, she bares her teeth to the wind and sings, loud and uncaring, " _Like a river made of silver, everyone was running to the scene!"_

Of his own accord, Jeff spins the dial and turns the volume up. She drops back into her seat, surprised, to find him smiling fondly at her, tapping his fingers on the wheel to the beat.

"You know this?" she yells over the music.

"Of course," he yells back. "I'm not a hermit."

She lets out a laugh, and for once she isn't embarrassed by it. "I didn't take you for a Train fan!"

"I'm a complicated person!"

Then they're both laughing, wind rolling through the car and tousling their clothes and hair, the steady drumming rhythm of the music vibrating all around them. When Britta hears the lyrics begin to ramp up for the chorus, she tugs on Jeff's sleeve, prompting, "Come on, do it with me!"

Jeff makes a self-conscious noise, shaking his head, and she tugs harder.

"No one's going to make fun of you," she urges, giving him a smile. "It's just you and me."

Jeff takes in a deep breath. He nods.

" _Like a sunrise,_ " Britta starts, encouraging, " _made of white lies—_ "

Jeff's voice is wavering at first, but grows stronger as he slides into the easy groove of the music, some of the perpetual tension draining from his body as he does so. "— _Everything was nothing as it seems._ "

On impulse, Britta grabs his hand and twines their fingers together. She's grinning so wide her cheeks are aching.

" _I was shot down,_ " they sing, and they're both looking at each other, eyes bright in the sun, as they finish the chorus together, " _In cold blood, b_ _y an angel in blue jeans!"_

Britta will think about that moment when she lies awake that night, listening to the silent motel room, feeling cold and uncomfortable on her own, knowing that warm skin and comfort is just one bed over and still an immeasurable distance away. She will think about the bubbly giddiness in her throat as Jeff sang, his face illuminated in the light glare across the dashboard, and how his hand had felt when it was clutching hers.

She will think that maybe, for once, she deserves something good. She will think that maybe, for once, this will be it.

* * *

"Evens."

"Odds."

Jeff rolls the die. They watch it clatter on the table.

"Four," he announces, resigned.

"Ha!" Britta says, as he pockets the die and gets to his feet. She picks up his jacket from the motel bed and tosses it to him.

"How does Chinese sound?"

"What if we try something new? I saw a place called Shawarmageddon down the street."

"Shawarmageddon," Jeff says slowly, a tinge of disbelief in his voice as he pulls on his jacket.

"Yeah, you know, like 'shawarma' and 'armageddon'." Britta mimes smashing the two words together. Jeff is staring at her in open bewilderment. She sighs. "There was also an inverted pentagram and a goat's head symbol on the front door, and I thought it was cool."

Jeff shakes his head. "Shirley would kill us if she knew we were eating satanist shawarma."

"I don't think they're satanists! They're committing to the aesthetic, and you know what? I admire it."

"Fine, but if I'm not back in thirty minutes, assume I've been sacrificed to Beelzebub by shawarma cultists and leave without me." Jeff finishes carefully zipping up his dumb fragile leather jacket and heads out, letting the door swing shut behind him.

Britta scoffs. As soon as he's gone, she opens up the group chat again, and sends them a photo of Jeff she took inside a casino. He's glaring at a pack of young, douchey bachelors off to the side, bathed in purple and green neon hues from all the lights around them, who are in the midst of uproarious laughter, clearly rich, spoiled, and having the time of their lives. And of course there's Jeff, in his tight-fitting sweaters and annoyed scowl, looking exactly like a suburban dad on the verge of scolding a bunch of rowdy teens.

britta: _[image attachment]_

britta: _hes jealous bc he isnt a cool womanizer anymore_

pelton: _Awww. You should tell him I still think he's cool <33_

annie: _I certainly hope you two aren't gambling. You know how terrible you are with money._

britta: _ha absolutely not_

abed: _one second._

A moment later, her ringtone goes off with a call from Abed. Britta answers it, bemused.

"Hey, Abed," she says.

" _So, you're doing a road trip episode,_ " he says, in lieu of hello. " _That's good, I was beginning to worry we would never have one_."

"According to Jeff, we're not road tripping, we're _sightseeing_."

" _Jeff doesn't know what he's talking about,_ " Abed dismisses. " _It's a classic road trip episode. A few characters, for one reason or another, break off from their normal routine to embark on a journey of self-discovery, hijinks and shenanigans, dramatic emotional confrontations, and frequently, resolutions to pre-established sexual or romantic tension. The latter two tend to happen simultaneously. I'm glad it's you and Jeff; out of everyone, you two probably need a resolution the most._ " He sighs, sounding vaguely beleaguered. " _I don't know how you stand so many loose ends._ "

"Thank you...?"

" _You're welcome. I do wish you would have consulted me beforehand. I have some ideas for road trip episodes that I never really got to flesh out properly._ "

"I think we're okay so far. Thanks, though."

" _Alright. But if you change your mind, I've emailed you an itemized list._ "

Of course he has. Britta huffs a laugh. "Abed, never change."

He clicks his tongue. " _Affirmative. One last thing: since I assume you guys are in Reno, will you be stopping by Los Angeles? I could show you the ropes of the city._ "

"I'll have to talk to Jeff about it, but I think we could drop in. I'd love to see your new place."

" _Cool. Cool cool cool. Tell Jeff I said hi, and also that I think he should start wearing feather boas all the time. It would really accentuate his arc of not only accepting, but embracing the comedic absurdity of his life._ "

"I'll be sure to tell him. Take care, Abed."

" _Bye_."

Britta closes her messages, opens up Google, and types in the search bar, 'purple feather boa cheap'.

* * *

Jeff comes back from Shawarmageddon with the best takeout Britta has eaten in her entire life. Jeff makes a show of calling it "just okay" and "not worth dying over", but neither of them have anything left on their plates when they're finished. She adds the location to her favorite places in Google Maps.

He shows her a picture from the restaurant of a sign on the bathroom door, which proclaims that all employees must carve inverted pentagrams into their forearms before returning to work. "Not satanists, huh?" he says, one eyebrow raised.

" _Commitment to a_ _esthetic_ , Jeff. You wouldn't get it."

"What's there to get?" he cries. "It's not even that funny!"

"That attitude is _exactly_ why you could never understand."

* * *

They stay in Reno for three days.

Jeff has to forbid any more screwing around in casinos before they become _really_ broke, so instead they set their sights on picking out gifts for everyone. They get into a heated argument over whether or not they should buy a full body, sexy Minnie Mouse costume for Pelton so he can torment the next semester's students with it, which ultimately comes down to an anonymous Twitter vote. When the votes are tallied, Britta is able to triumphantly put the costume in Jeff's little red shopping basket, much to his chagrin.

"I have to work with him," he says, dismayed, the basket sitting in the crook of his arm as he follows her down the aisle. "I have to _work_ with him, Britta."

"He's going to love it."

"Maybe so, but is his love for campy cosplay really worth more than my emotional wellbeing?"

"Oh, shut up, you big baby."

"Alright, but if my work ethic suffers, Frankie _will_ know exactly who's responsible."

They get a dolphin bobblehead for Elroy (Britta's idea), a brand new professional binder for Frankie (courtesy of Jeff), and CD holder that contains up to forty disks for Abed (joint effort), since his last one was a crappy plastic thing that shattered when Britta tried to set a book on the top. After several minutes of obnoxiously bickering throughout the store while the dead-eyed employees give them murderous glances, they finally agree on a gift for Annie: an adorable collection of tiny ceramic bunnies, each colored in pale, rosy pinks or creamy whites.

"They can go on a shelf or in her bedroom," Britta says, cradling a bunny in her palm. "You know how she loves this sort of girly stuff."

"Fragile, aren't they?" Jeff mutters.

"Yeah, but Annie's not a neurotic eighteen-year-old anymore, and since she's not living with Troy and Abed, I doubt fragile things in her apartment are at risk of being broken these days."

Jeff can pretend he isn't a tiny bit charmed by the bunnies' little painted eyes and smooth shapes all he wants, but when he places them in the basket, he does it with the utmost care and gentleness. Britta, as courteous as she is, does not point this out. He's free to enjoy the delusion of still being untouchably cool for as long as he can, but _she_ knows the truth about the soft-hearted, sentimental idiot underneath, and that's all that matters.

* * *

Britta brings up the idea to visit Abed as soon as they're on the road out of Reno.

"You know," she says casually, "since we're so close to California, what if we made a little detour down to LA?"

Jeff glances at her. "What? Why? It's all forest fires and stuck up celebrities down there."

"Sure, but there's tons of other noteworthy stuff there too."

"Like?"

Britta sighs, realizing he's doing that thing where he purposefully misunderstands her until she comes out and just says, clearly, what she's fishing for. She gives in this time. "For one, Abed."

"Abed's probably too busy with his fancy new job." Jeff makes a dismissive noise, then switches topics, pressing on with faux ease, "You know, if we cut down towards Arizona, we could visit Death Valley, see what that's all about. I heard there's barely any light pollution there, and you can see the whole galaxy."

"Since when are you interested in stargazing?" Britta shakes her head. "Look, I talked to Abed in Reno, he can clear his schedule for a day or two to hang out with us. It's been a few months since we've seen anyone but Frankie and Pelton; this could be really good for us."

"Speak for yourself. I'm fine."

Britta scoffs at the blatant lie. She crosses her arms. Jeff isn't looking at her anymore, gaze focused on the road. "Yeah? You're fine?"

"Yes. Okay, I was a little bit of a wreck when they left, but I've spent the summer handling it. I don't need periodic visits with Annie and Abed to be able to function, I'm not some sort of _addict_ like you."

"Oh, I'm the addict?" Britta snaps. "You're the one who's been drowning his sorrows in scotch for the past two years, since your career fell apart on you for the second time. There's a pile of AA flyers from Frankie in your office trash can as a testament to that." Jeff's grip visibly tightens on the steering wheel. She takes in a deep breath, willing herself to calm down. There's no reason to be fighting right now. He's only lashing out because something is obviously bothering him, she just needs to find out what that is, so they can deal with it together. She is so tired of both of them using each other to self-destruct. "Listen. I'm sorry. I just miss Abed, okay? And I thought it would be fun to visit him at his new place, since we're already on the road."

Jeff is silent for a long moment. Finally, he exhales, swallowing hard. "I'm sorry too. I just... I can't see Abed right now."

"Are you worried it'll feel different? Because it's Abed, you know he's going to be himself no matter what."

"It's not about him, it's about me. I've spent the last two months struggling to keep a lid on the giant toxic vat of all my issues and messy feelings, and now that I've kind of got it under control, I'm scared that seeing Abed again will just throw me off all over again." Jeff clenches his jaw. "Can we please just keep driving and make it up to him another time?"

Britta looks down at her hands, twisting them together in her lap. Her chest aches with some undefined emotion. An extended, heavy silence hangs between them, and Jeff is so tense he might as well be stone.

She hates this.

"Okay," Britta says quietly. "It's your road trip. We can go wherever you want. Take as long as you need."

"Britta," he tries, his voice shaky.

She shifts and angles her body towards the window, attempting to focus on the scenery passing outside instead of Jeff, guilty and broken beside her, and the conversation is over.

* * *

When they check into a shitty motel four hours later, Britta books separate rooms, ignoring the wounded look on Jeff's face as she does so. She's not angry with him, not really. He wouldn't deserve it if she was. She just needs a little space, and she thinks maybe he does too.

Going through her evening routine alone is strange, when she knows that Jeff is right across the hall, doing the same thing. As she's squeezing out the last droplets of moisture from hair in the bathroom, she briefly wonders if he's going to bother with a shower tonight, or if he'll fiddle with his skin products for half an hour and then go straight to bed with a glass of scotch.

She looks in the mirror and tells her reflection to get herself together. She can sleep in a questionably clean moth-eaten motel bed by herself just fine, and she does not need Jeff Winger nearby to do that. She is a strong, capable, individual woman.

Ugh.

She climbs into the bed with her book, turning off all the lights except for one small lamp to read by. Her hair is still damp, slightly soaking her oversized white shirt, as she props up the book on her knee and begins to read, softly, to herself. " _'But I clenched my teeth and my fists, and I floated. I would hold myself together—I would keep myself contained. Otherwise my body could burst to pieces. It could all break apart. There were shivering hairline fractures everywhere.._.'"

When the sun is gone and her voice is hoarse and she's shivering all over because the sheets are too thin and the AC's only setting is high, she closes her book, flicks off the lamp, and tries to force herself to sleep. The motel room is deathly, horribly quiet.

She grabs her phone and checks her messages. In the group chat, Annie is talking about something funny that happened to her at work today. Everyone else is offline; sleeping, or maybe awake but busy.

Finally, her whole body restless and on edge, Britta jumps out of bed in shorts and the baggy shirt she stole from Jeff years ago and never returned, and steps out into the hallway, gingerly easing the door shut behind her. She tries the handle of Jeff's room first, then knocks when she realizes it's locked.

It takes Jeff a few moments to come to the door. He's rubbing sleepiness from his eyes when he sees her, and he stops.

Britta speaks first. "We're not doing this," she says firmly, looking up at him with an intensity that's probably undeserved.

He squints uncertainly at her. "What?"

"This. This shitty cycle of arguments and mutual self-destruction and all that crap. I'm ending it right here." She steps forward, forcing him to backpedal and allow her inside the room. She kicks the door shut behind her. "You're clearly having some kind of breakdown, that's the whole reason we're on this trip in the first place, and it isn't fair of me to be mean to you for not wanting to trigger yourself. I'm not mad at you, got it?" She waits until he nods before continuing. "I'm just being pissy because I'm tired and we've been together nonstop for two weeks."

Jeff slowly nods again, obviously still not all the way awake yet, but trying to listen to her regardless.

"And I meant what I said, alright? It's your spontaneous midlife road trip. You can take as long as you need. I know what you're doing, but I'm in no position to judge a fellow runaway." She gives him a tentative smile, then points a stern finger at him. "But you have to promise to tell me when you're hurting, I can't help otherwise."

"... Thanks. Really." The relief on his face makes her feel ashamed of her earlier stonewalling all over again.

"No problem. What are friends for?"

Jeff shakes his head, chuckling. "You're the best, Britts."

She does _not_ get the warm and fuzzies, because again, she is a strong, independent woman who does not need validation from a _man_. Nor does she feel even the _slightest_ twinge of butterflies when he steps forward and pulls her into a tight hug.

"I'm sorry too," he murmurs. "I asked you to come with me, I shouldn't be snapping at you. You don't deserve that."

She presses her face to his chest and laughs. "God, we're both sucky, huh?"

He lets out a breath. "Yeah."

When they separate, he gets a sheepish look on his face and hesitantly requests, "Do you want to sleep in here tonight?"

"Yes, but only if it doesn't lead to pity sex or anything."

"Of course not. Unless you want the night to go that way."

They eye each other for a second, dramatically suspicious, then dissolve into exhausted laughter.

"This is only going to work if I'm the big spoon," she asserts.

It isn't that they've gotten better at conflict resolution, she thinks, crawling into bed with him. It's just that neither of them have the energy to draw it out in fits of emotional tension and screaming matches anymore. She hasn't heard a tried-and-true bullshitted Winger speech to de-escalate them in ages. They're too old, now, to be indulging in college freshmen dramatics, when a hug and an apology are all they really need.

And she doesn't revel in truly arguing with him, like she used to. It all feels so painfully trite. Very season one.

He lets her hold him close. They sleep well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not gonna lie to you, i kinda hate the end of this chapter, but i can't make it any better so i'm forcing myself to just post it. just post it. it's fine. it doesn't have to be perfect. the next chapter will start better to make up for it i promise
> 
> comments encourage me and i appreciate them deeply <3


	2. Chapter 2

They are informed by nearly everyone they meet that they're visiting Death Valley at the worst time of the year. It's early July, and the whole area is scorching hot, pushing Jeff into trading his preferred long-sleeves for a simple t-shirt and jeans. Britta warns him that he'll be wanting shorts once they're out under the sun, but he insists that he's been fine in the summer with jeans in the past. Britta reiterates that he has literally never been anywhere but Colorado, where the temperatures are mild year round, and right now they are literally in the Death Valley.

When he waltzes out of the motel in a black merch shirt for a band he doesn't listen to and slim navy blue jeans, Britta sighs, rubbing her forehead with her palm.

  
"You're going to die of heatstroke," she says.

"Try me."

They come up with two options for the day: either they can visit Badwater Basin, the lowest place in North America and contested hottest place on Earth; or, they can take a very long hike to the top of Telescope Peak, the best view in the region.

Jeff is cagey about both, seeing as each requires a certain amount of physical effort. They're debating their choices at less-than-socially-acceptable volumes as they skim through a tiny, rundown general store, likely irritating the pink-haired teenage girl who's half asleep at the cash register. Britta points a finger at Jeff, hisses, "This isn't over," and then marches up to the register with two sleeping bags, a pile of snacks, and a new pair of tacky plastic sunglasses.

"Going to Telescope Peak?" the girl, whose name tag reads 'Alex', says dryly, sliding the items closer to herself.

"Yeah, maybe." Britta leans her elbows on the counter. "Neither of us are really campers, but we're both trying to get out of our comfort zones, you know? Anyway, I'm wearing him down. He's going to enjoy himself no matter what, he just has to be a jag about it first."

Alex raises an eyebrow. "He sounds like a dick."

Britta blinks, startled by the curse.

"I'm seventeen, not ten," Alex says. She's scanning the items agonizingly slow. "Well, you can't go wrong with Telescope Peak. It wouldn't be my first choice for my honeymoon, but it's your life, I guess."

"Honeymoon?" Britta sputters.

"Yeah? You're married to that dude, right?" Alex gestures behind her, and Britta turns to see Jeff a few aisles away, running a hand through his hair and peering into a tiny, purple handheld mirror with intense focus. "I mean, congrats on winning the conventional attractiveness lottery. Personally, all men sort of look the same to me. Maybe it's the lesbianism."

"I'm bi," Britta says distantly, feeling rather like she has something lodged in her throat.

"Nice."

"What did you say about us being married?"

"Oh, are you not married? It's just..." Alex waves her hand, as if to indicate how self-explanatory the whole thing should be. "You guys argue like my lola and lolo. I just sorta assumed, sorry."

"It's fine, we're not... We almost got married a few times, but we're not." Britta wants the floor to swallow her up.

Alex's eyebrows disappear into her hairline. "How do you almost get married to someone, multiple times, and still not be involved with them in some way?"

"It's complicated. You wouldn't want to hear all the messy details, believe me."

Sighing, Alex scans the last item, and almost reluctantly slides the stuff back to Britta. "Believe _me_ when I say this is the most entertained I've been in years."

At that moment, Jeff sidles up the counter beside her, bringing with him nothing but a shiny bottle of sparkling grape juice and a tent.

"They didn't have merlot," he says regretfully. "And I figured we probably shouldn't get drunk at the top of a mountain."

"Merlot," Alex scoffs. They both look at her as she grabs the opaque bottle from Jeff's hands and rolls her eyes. "What do you think this place is? The Ritz?"

* * *

Britta had meant it when she told Alex neither of them are campers. Living in your car or on the side of the road for a few weeks is not at all like legitimate camping, or so she's been told. Still, it's never too late to try something new.

(She isn't counting the study group's disastrous camping trip of their second year, which had involved multiple extremely heated arguments, miserably humid weather, a truly horrifying amount of mosquitos, a raccoon ransacking Shirley's tent, and two separate incidents of Troy breaking down into hysterical tears, all of which ended with everyone running to their cars and driving back home three days early, resolving to never speak of it again. It was only once they walked into the study room on Monday that the group realized they'd accidentally left Pierce behind in their haste.

Not exactly a great memory for anyone.)

They follow the road to the campground, Jeff grumbling the whole way about his precious car getting dusty. Britta picks their campsite, which they're only sleeping at for the night, and starts the confusing and arduous process of figuring out exactly what real, actual fun camping entails. The spot she chose overlooks the mountainside, penned in on all sides by some type of twisting trees they've never seen before, complete with a picnic table and a fire pit.

She's standing on top of the picnic table, looking out over the expanse of greenery that carpets the landscape in a gentle slope downwards, when there's a loud clattering noise behind her. She spins around to see Jeff trying and failing to set up the tent, the heap of rods and fabric tumbling out of his hands and landing noisily in the dirt.

"You can con your way into a job at a prestigious law firm for seven years," Britta says, watching him scramble around, "but you can't set up a tent?"

"It's not as easy as it looks! I've never done this before."

"Well, don't look at me. Neither have I."

"Then _why_ did you suggest we go camping?"

"I thought it'd be fun! It's a quintessential life experience or whatever!"

"After what happened last time, you should _know better!"_

Britta tries to look up how to set up a tent, only to discover they don't get service up here. Jeff looks like he's moments from an overreaction, so Britta resolves the problem by tasking him with unpacking stuff from the trunk, while she tackles the damn tent.

After wrestling with the fucking thing for an embarrassing amount of time, frequently checking the unhelpful instruction manual, and smacking herself in the face with metal rods more than once, she finally manages to yank it into some semblance of upright—though, despite her best efforts, it still ends up listing uncertainly to the left.

"Okay," she exhales heavily, hands on her hips, pleased with herself. "I did it!"

"And you did it with dignity," Jeff says sarcastically.

She throws a rock at him.

* * *

Once night falls, they get the fire going by rubbing two sticks together, which they learned from wildlife survival reality television programs.

Just kidding. They borrow a propane torch from some campers nearby who _actually_ came prepared.

In lieu of s'mores, they have mini marshmallows and little handfuls of chocolate chips, coupled with carbonated grape juice in emptied plastic water bottles. It truly is the height of luxury. Britta pokes the pile of flaming logs with a stick, watching sparks flare up as she does so. Beside her, sitting with their shoulders pressed together despite all the space available, Jeff is slowly chewing a single marshmallow, staring into the fire. He looks like he's deep in thought. But Jeff doesn't usually think very deeply about anything, so Britta might be misjudging the expression.

Campfires are one of the best spots for introspection, Britta supposes. Campfires, and of course, rooftops at midnight that are slick with ice and frost and pose a legitimate danger of killing you, as you wobble your way across them in bunny slippers and an MCR hoodie, because it's Colorado in December, and you're a sixteen-year-old who's having a bit of a nervous breakdown all the time.

Britta does not look back on her teen years with much fondness.

Jeff seems to be steadily sliding into brooding mode, which Britta finds irritating, so she grabs a handful of marshmallows and starts throwing them at the side of his face, one by one.

He turns. A marshmallow nails the middle of his forehead.

"Can I ask why you're assaulting me with marshmallows?" he says, raising an eyebrow.

"Maybe I just felt like it."

"That's not a reason."

"No?" Britta pops one in her mouth and takes aim with another, relishing the shift in Jeff's expression from 'mulling over my greatest failures in life' to 'gearing up for a marshmallow war'. Her projectile gets batted away with a wave of his hand.

"If you throw another one of those at me," Jeff threatens, "there will be consequences."

Britta makes direct eye contact, challenging, as she picks up a marshmallow, rolls it between her fingers for a moment, then calmly flicks it at him.

"That's it," Jeff says, and then it is _on_.

Their other snacks go flying as Jeff flings a fistful of mini marshmallows in her direction; she ducks, twisting around and snatching up the other bag to supply her arsenal. Jeff isn't a naturally competitive person, seeing as that would require him to show he gives a shit, but there's definitely a glint of something like it in his eyes as he leaps onto the picnic table and showers her with a mountain of white marshmallows before she can defend herself.

Britta slips under the table and comes out on the other side, where she grabs Jeff's ankle and yanks.

He lets out a yelp of surprise and loses his balance, barely managing to turn the fall into an impressively fluid roll, which lands him on one knee in the sparse shrubbery.

"I'm going to pull a muscle doing this," he complains. "After paintball last year, everything was agony for a whole week. How was Pierce still doing this kind of stuff in his sixties?"

She lingers by the edge of the campfire, worrying a marshmallow between her teeth, as she watches him get to his feet with a beleaguered huff. She will never admit that paintball had left her more than a little sore as well. "I think Pierce did everything mainly out of spite. And because he hated feeling left out more than anything else."

Jeff sighs and pats his shirt, dusting it off. "You know, we really are getting to be too old for this."

"Speak for yourself. I'm only thirty-four." She flicks a line of marshmallows off the palm of her hand, most of them missing Jeff by a mile. He swats them away. "Aw, giving up already?"

"There's nothing to give up on, it's a marshmallow fight for fifth graders."

"Spoken like a true loser."

"Hey!"

She gives in, though, and slides back into the seat next to him with a package of graham crackers. She holds them up like a peace offering. He breaks off one and starts to nibble on it.

There's silence for a minute while they both catch their breath. They _are_ too old for this.

"Jeff," Britta says after a moment, leaning forward on her knees.

"Mm?"

"Do you ever get worried that we're losing our edge?"

He bites off a piece of graham cracker. "Sometimes. It was bound to happen eventually, but it doesn't make it any less horrifying."

"I wish we could be twenty-five forever."

"Preaching to the choir. If I could sell my soul to be thirty again..." He shakes his head, nabbing another cracker from the package. "How pathetic is that."

"It's a little pathetic, but I'm in no position to judge. I lived in a tent on Greendale's campus for a week."

"I almost forgot you did that." Jeff laughs shortly. "This last year felt like such a blur. It was just rapid-fire meaningless absurdity, one after the other. Definitely not our best year."

"Wasn't our worst, though."

"Hmm." He points at her. "Worst year; go."

Britta considers it. They've had more than a few dark years in a row. Freshman year was, in general, pretty unremarkable. For a while, she had been on an optimism kick during their sophomore year—which coincided _with_ but was not caused _by_ her friends-with-benefits stint with Jeff—and considered it part of the Greendale Seven's golden days.

Junior year was... yeah. _That_ was a whole nightmare.

Senior year was mostly quiet, too, failed relationship with Troy notwithstanding. And the two years after that were a blur of alcohol, bad decisions, homelessness, and emotional turmoil.

"Fifth," she decides eventually. "That was the year Troy left. And the year you almost..." She swallows, throat suddenly tight. Jeff stiffens beside her. She hurriedly says, "I shouldn't have brought it up. What's your worst year?"

"Junior year," he answers, quickly. Probably trying to move past the unhappy memories she'd accidentally dredged up. "You know, I think Chang becoming a warlord, kidnapping Craig for months, and almost killing everyone only ranks as the second worst thing to happen to me that year."

"What's the first?"

Jeff frowns. "Getting kicked out of biology."

"Really?" Britta blinks in surprise. "That ranks higher than Greendale's fascist takeover? Higher than getting expelled?"

"I thought I was going to lose you guys. That's why it's the first."

Britta's heart twists at the quiet, miserable note in his voice. She gently sets a hand on his forearm; he glances at her, then back at the campfire, eyes downcast.

"I know it was irrational," he says. "I think I even knew it then. But knowing it didn't change the way I felt. The thought of growing apart from you guys, only seeing each other for five minutes at lunch or passing hellos in the hallway, and eventually not talking at all..." Jeff lets out a soft sigh. "Honestly, that was worse than thinking we were all about to blown up together. I shouldn't have axed the table, though."

"Yeah," Britta agrees, patting his arm with sympathy. "That was crazy, even for you."

He laughs, short and harsh. "Did you know that whole fiasco is the reason my therapist decided I should try anxiety meds? Apparently normal, well-adjusted people don't chase an Asian who's in a bathrobe through a school's vents and then bury an axe in a study table."

Britta watches him as he stares at his half-eaten graham cracker moodily. His skin is warm under her palm, where they're touching.

"Maybe you should try therapy again, when we get back," she suggests, tentatively. "I don't think your old therapists really helped you."

Jeff tenses lightly, then seems to force himself to relax. "No, they didn't. I couldn't make myself open up to any of them. And after I lost my job, I couldn't afford real psychologists that weren't recommended by Greendale's bulletin boards."

"Well, who knows? It might be different this time." She puts her hands up at the suspicious look on his face. "And I am not recommending _my_ services, trust me. I'm telling you this as your best friend: you need professional help. Because, let's be honest, our lives kind of suck."

"Yeah. Maybe you're right."

The admission warms her from the inside out, and she shifts a little in her seat, grinning in triumph.

"Don't let it go to your head," he adds. He takes a bite of the graham cracker. Britta still has a hand clasped around his arm, and all at once she is very aware of how close they are. Of how he hasn't tried to move away yet.

The dim glow of the flames dances across his face, wavering patterns of light casting his skin in warm undertones. Suddenly, she's filled with the weird impulse to reach up and gently touch his cheek; she crushes it down and quickly looks away from him, flushed with embarrassment.

_Get a grip,_ she scolds herself. _Jeff_ _is not in the headspace to deal with or reciprocate my stupid sappy disgustingly romantic emotions. We were literally just talking about getting him therapy._

Jeff doesn't seem to notice her brief lapse in good judgement. He gestures in front of them. "So... do you remember how to put out a campfire?"

* * *

They go to bed in separate sleeping bags, like normal friends do.

But in the dead of night, Britta wakes from a fitful rest to discover Jeff curled up in a ball and using his sleeping bag like a blanket, shivering and pitiful in the cold desert temperatures. Britta sighs to herself. She unzips her sleeping bag, then his, then spreads the material over both of them. She refuses to allow herself to feel awkward about cuddling up to Jeff, as close as she can get without waking him.

(She doesn't really have any good excuses for this anymore.

It's just... nice, to be near him.

Sometimes.

Although she'd die before telling _him_ that.)

* * *

Jeff's stupid early riser habits prevail even now, meaning Britta is rudely awakened at the crack of dawn by Jeff shuffling out from under their sleeping-bags-slash-blankets to make breakfast. Half asleep and sore from lying on the hard ground on all night, she makes a pathetic grab for him as he gets up, dodging her with ease.

"Jeff," she whines. "It's so early."

"We're gonna need an early start, if we want to get out before the heat really sets in," he says, with an insane amount of morning cheer that she will never, ever understand. Jeff's always weirdly happy in the morning, before it hits nine o'clock and his scowl-y faces come back.

Britta knows that because she spent every weekend of their entire sophomore year waking up in his bed.

She is not awake enough for this. She rolls over, wrapping herself in both sleeping bags and worsening the disarray that is their sleeping arrangement. Jeff had graciously left the tent zipped up, blocking out the strongest sunlight, but the sheer material of the tent still allows a generous amount of light to brighten the interior. Britta runs a hand through her snarled nest of curls and heaves a sigh.

When she eventually clambers out of the tent and drops onto the picnic bench, Jeff presses a tiny styrofoam cup of coffee into her hands. She frowns at it.

He grimaces apologetically. "That's all we had."

"Didn't I pack teabags?" She sets the coffee down but keeps her hands wrapped around it, soaking up the warmth. "I'm trying to quit caffeine."

Jeff sips his coffee, smug. The styrofoam cup is ridiculously tiny in his giant hands. "You know your precious lemon hibiscus tea has caffeine in it too, right? Same vice, different medium."

Britta glares at him. "Shut up."

Eventually, once she's reluctantly downed the coffee and changed into a new set of clothes, she feels almost human. Human enough, at least, that when Jeff complains about not having the proper facilities to do his skincare routine, she's able to plaster the perfect amount of smug glee onto her face as she points to the rickety outdoor communal sinks that everyone at the Mahogany Flat Campground has to share. She would've thought that that would finally be the thing to make him skip his morning compulsion, but Jeff Winger continues to surprise her. Or maybe not.

Morning on the mountainside is cool and refreshing. The stark blue of the pale sky is speckled with wisps of cloud, the greenery around them practically humming with life. Jeff dumps gasoline on the campfire and ignites it once more, and together they fry some truly terrible eggs over it.

Jeff sets his fork down, grimacing. "Not my best," he admits.

"Yeah, what the hell happened to the Winger culinary wonders?" Britta says, eyebrows pinched as she regards her burned eggs. Jeff is weirdly good at making food, to the point where she often used to make her decision about staying over based entirely on whether or not he intended to cook.

Anyone who doesn't know the heavenly taste of Jeff's pancakes is missing out, hardcore.

"Forgive me for not exactly being used to cooking over an open fire," he shoots back. "I'd like to see you do any better."

"No thank you. I'd probably light both the food and myself on fire, and probably tent or the car too."

"Well, that's a given."

After their breakfast travesty, Britta figures they should join the next group of hikers before it gets any warmer. She wins the clothing argument this time ( _Britta: 3, Jeff: still sweet sweet 0),_ and when they set off onto the trail to Telescope Peak, Jeff is dressed in trouser shorts and a blue t-shirt, which just happens to match Britta's blue tank top on complete accident.

A fourth of the way down the trail, Britta is forcefully reminded of why she doesn't do this sort of thing anymore. Smoking for fourteen years and her weekly exercise being limited to walking between classes makes for a truly abysmal physical performance. She keeps having to pause, winded, while Jeff watches her, not even out of breath. Stupid Jeff with his dumb abs and healthy lifestyle.

"You're the one who made us do this," he points out, as she leans down and massages her sore legs.

"Can it, Winger."

The trail is beautiful, of course, which makes the burn in her muscles worth it. Even the lower parts offer sweeping views of the entire national park, showcasing miles upon miles of sloping green peaks and winding canyons that mark the landscape. As they climb, so does the sun, until its blazing heat is directly overhead. Britta thinks it should be hotter than it is, but the fierce gusts of wind and rising elevation work wonders towards diminishing the full impact of the summertime heat.

At some point, they let themselves fall behind the other hikers, after Jeff quietly suggests that the others are probably sick of listening to the pair bicker. It's nicer, anyway, to walk with him alone. He slows down when she needs him to, no matter how much he grumbles about it, and they can be as loud as they want without irritating anyone else.

The trail opens up to a flat, sprawling expanse of shrubbery and scattered chunks of flint, the slope absolutely scoured with cold, strong winds. Britta actually finds herself staggering a little bit, grabbing onto Jeff's arm and steadying herself without thinking about it.

She looks up, about to apologize and then maybe say something biting to detract from it, but she sees Jeff smiling slightly down at her instead, and she keeps her mouth shut.

"The tour guide said this is called the Arcane Meadows," Jeff shouts at her, his voice almost swallowed up by the roar of the wind. "I think. I wasn't really listening."

* * *

The trail levels out for a few miles, which Britta is grateful for. They stop a couple times to drink water and rest, enjoying the cool air and the breeze that swirls up and down the mountain, making the sparse trees quiver and shake. The group they'd started out with passes them at some point, headed back down. Jeff says that probably means it won't be much farther before they reach the peak.

From where they are, Britta can see the rest of the trail snaking its way along the ridges, leading a stark path upwards to Telescope Peak in the distance.

Jeff, paging through the trail guide they had snagged from the campground, points out the various canyons and basins that surround them as they walk: Panamint Valley, below; Aguere Berry Point to the north; the Hanaupah Canyon to the east; and the Tuber and Jail Canyons, carving jagged arcs in the earth. The world shimmers with heat, and the sun's light is relentless. She steals Jeff's hippie aviators from his backpack under the guise of saving him from an aesthetic disaster. He's a little ungrateful, in her opinion.

The level respite ends around the fourth mile, where the trail steepens and begins to zigzag up the slope. The thinning air leaves her more out of breath than she'll ever admit; Jeff slows his quick pace to almost an amble, letting her struggling lungs catch up with the rest of her.

And then they're in a forest.

Britta isn't sure that's quite the right word for it, but the trees become denser, crowding the trail on each side. These trees are twisted and massive, bare limbs stretching upward, scraping at the sky. The lumpy, striped trunks dwarf them in girth; they tower above Jeff and Britta, tall and imposing.

She pauses to stand at the base of one, overshadowed by the sheer size; it makes her feel impossibly small. The air hums with the susurrus of rustling bushes as she reaches out with one hand, tentative, something like awe unfolding in her chest. Her fingertips brush the coarse wooden trunk, and her breath catches.

Jeff's voice is soft when he says, "These are bristlecone pines. They're the oldest living things on the planet, and some are supposedly as ancient as five thousand years old."

It's hard to wrap her head around something so vast. To think that this single tree may have lived for a thousand years before her, and would continue to live for a thousand years after she's dead and buried.

It feels... wrong, somehow, to take a picture. She keeps her phone in her pocket, and they keep walking.

* * *

The rest of the hike to the peak is steep and strenuous, and by the time they drag themselves up the final stretch, even Jeff is panting and muttering about his feet hurting. But they make it. The air is thin, over eleven thousand feet above sea level, and every part of Britta's body is burning and sore, but it's worth it when they finally straggle across the ridgeline to Telescope Peak, and the world sprawls out before them.

Miles upon miles of mountains crisscrossing and doubling over one another, as far as the eye can see. Britta and Jeff are silent as they take in the view; she doesn't think there's much to say, that could do this justice. Badwater Basin drops off on one side, the salt flats shining like a luminous, white smudge across the valley floor. Dozens of canyons and valleys pepper the landscape. The quiet is powerful; everything, even the wildlife, is still. The wind here is strong, snatching their clothes and making Britta's curls whip around. The distant horizon melds fuzzily with the wide, encapsulating blue sky that cradles overhead. 

Britta, shaky on her feet, slides down to sit on a flat piece of rock, gaze fixed on the incredible view. She's been a lot of marvelous, picturesque places, but something about this feels more precious than any wild, far-off sights she's known so far.

She feels oddly overwhelmed.

And then, out of nowhere, Jeff says, "The others could never do this." The note of triumphant anger in his voice surprises her, just for a moment. When she glances at him, he's staring out over the basin, jaw set, shoulders tense.

But Britta's starting to feel like they deserve to be angry, all things considered. He doesn't seem to be expecting it when she gets to her aching feet, bitterly agreeing, "No, they couldn't."

And the truth is that Britta _is_ angry. She's spent most of the last four years being ridiculed by six people she loves, all of them but one who have now abandoned her to live their successful, happy lives, far away from the last two damaged screwups who couldn't figure out how to drag themselves out of Greendale's gravity well.

Britta stands on Telescope Peak with the only person in the world who would never, ever leave her behind, and lets herself _feel_.

She's angry with Troy, for being so starry-eyed and young and idealistic, unable to swallow the harsher edges of her, for taking off on a boat with Levar Burton and never looking back, never responding to anyone's emails, for leaving a gaping wound in the fabric of their lives.

She's angry with Abed, for the way he would look at her with those dark eyes and flay her apart with just a few words, for committing to his dreams where Britta sat back and let hers fall apart.

She's angry with Pierce, for being such a horrible piece of shit of a human being and still, somehow, securing scraps of trust and affection from her, where she wanted so desperately to think he could be better, if he tried. For making her cry in her apartment with a bottle of vodka the night of his funeral, not even really knowing what she was mourning.

She's angry with Shirley, for not even making sure everyone knew she was leaving before she was gone, for her sugary sweet worry and maternal wisdom that Britta didn't know she would miss until it wasn't available anymore.

She's angry with Annie, for her innocent doe eyes and manipulative tears and the way she had flowered into a passionate, determined young woman ready to tackle the world while Britta had crumpled into a hollow shell of a person. For being able to coax out the catty sides of Britta that she hates, the sides that get jealous and crave attention from boys and tell Jeff Winger she loves him in front of a crowd of people just so she can lord it over his shitty ex-girlfriend. For fucking off to D.C. to intern for the FBI because she has her life together and knows exactly what she wants.

She loves them, and she is _furious_ with them. And she knows it's unreasonable, and toxic, and destructive, but it's not like anyone who might be hurt by it is here. The only other person around feels the exact same way.

Britta walks to the edge of the mountain next to Jeff, as close as she can get. The sheer height is dizzying. As a particularly harsh gust of wind makes him sway in place, and nearly blows her off balance, she lets out a startled shriek of laughter, high and wild, and grabs onto Jeff's offered arm to stabilize herself. He grasps at her sleeve in return, breathless. The quiet spell of the peak has vanished; the wind roars in her ears. 

She used to be so angry she would boil over with it. Split at the seams, trying to contain it. Now, she squares her shoulders, bares her teeth, and lets it out on her own terms. She howls down the mountainside to no one, "You bitches _wish_ you were us!" and her throat burns with the force, the rawness of it.

Jeff's grin resembles a snarl as he follows her lead, throwing his head back and shouting, "Take that, you bastards!"

Sick delight twists inside Britta, at their shared pettiness; yeah, they're damaged and toxic and broken, washed up imitations of real people, playacting at being normal, at being healthy, but _so what?_ They're standing on a goddamn mountain in the desert and this, at least, they can keep selfishly for themselves.

"We're fucking awesome!"

"Yeah! Get fucked!"

The wind devours their mean-spirited laughter and whisks it away as they cling, near-hysterical, to each other for balance, drunk on the altitude and profanity-laden confessions. There's something so wonderfully awful about the special sort of safety they provide one another; who else, of course, could she possibly act like this with? With whom else could she scream her worst, most cruel thoughts to the uncaring wilderness, and encounter neither judgement nor shame? Who else has seen every shattered bit of her soul and still think she's worth keeping?

In the same way, Britta supposes, that she has measured the sum of Jeff Winger's jagged edges, and doesn't begrudge him a single, ugly, broken piece.

* * *

_Britta & Jeff: 1_

_The universe, the Save Greendale Committee, and everyone-goddamn-else: 0_

* * *

They collapse into their motel bed that night, exhausted but satisfied with themselves. Jeff wearily tugs off his shoes as Britta sprawls out on her back, eyes closed, breathing in the scent of cheap detergent. The bed shifts as Jeff sits down on the edge, and Britta opens her eyes to give him a tired smirk.

"Come here," she says, tugging his arm; to her surprise, he goes willingly, sliding under the covers and smoothly maneuvering so that her head is tucked in the crook of his neck, his arm around her shoulders and their bodies easily slotting together in an exhausted heap.

She reaches over and wraps an arm around his waist. His fingers trace lightly over her bare shoulder, and she can't see his face from this angle, but suspects he's smiling.

Jackass.

"Don't say a word," she mumbles, when he shifts a little, settling. "Best friends do this all the time."

Jeff makes a soft, bemused sound. Britta doesn't quite catch his next whispered words as the warmth and darkness and tingling ache in her bones lull her into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am SO proud of this chapter and i hope you all enjoyed it as well. the death valley scenes just felt like they deserved a chapter of their own, so i've upped the final chapter count to 5. apologies for the long wait, and while i can't promise the next one will be up sooner, i can promise that chapters will be longer from here on out !!
> 
> tysm for reading and leave a comment if you liked this one !! <33


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